He stopped and watched carefully as the figures approached, trying to identify their uniforms in the moonlight. A moment later he realized they were Red Army regulars and not NKVD. He breathed a bit easier, but since two of them carried submachine guns leveled directly at his chest, he kept his hand on his pistol.
The trio stopped three meters away and stood silently for a moment. The one in the middle between two Red Army troopers was an officer. He was tall and very thin with a patch over his left eye. After another moment of silence he finally asked, “Amyerikanyets?”
Adam nodded. “Yes.”
“Gavaŕit pa rúski?”
“No. Do you speak English?”
The officer took a step forward and asked in perfect English, “Are you looking for the bridge?”
It was the question he’d been told to expect, and Adam answered, “I’m told the bridge is unsafe. But I require passage to Praga.”
The officer eyed him carefully, then said something in Russian to one of the submachine-gun-toting troopers, who stepped up, relieved Adam of the Walther and searched him thoroughly. The Russian trooper slipped the pistol into his own pocket, then motioned for Adam to proceed toward the water’s edge where a rowboat was beached.
Adam climbed into the boat and sat in the prow while the officer took a seat aft with one of the Red Army troopers, who continued to point the submachine gun at him. The other trooper sat in the middle and took up the oars.
Without another word they rowed across the Vistula River under a dark sky, illuminated only by a half moon and the glow of fires from Warsaw.
Toward evening of the following day, General Kovalenko sat at a metal table in his sparsely furnished field command tent. His tank corps commander, Colonel Roskov, was on his left and Captain Andreyev on his right. Across the table sat his visitor, the American emissary from Warsaw. They had kept him isolated and under guard since his arrival the previous night. He was a scrawny man with thin hair and the wire-rimmed spectacles of a schoolteacher. Yet, as Kovalenko studied him, there was a hard look in the man’s eyes and a bearing about him that suggested he was not what he seemed.
The four of them sat in silence for a few moments, the visitor with his hands folded on the table in front of him, his eyes on Kovalenko. Finally, the general nodded, and Captain Andreyev, who’d brought the visitor across the river, spoke first. “You are an American and an emissary of the Polish Government-in-Exile in London?” he asked, in English.
“Yes, that is correct,” the visitor replied.
“You’ve been in Warsaw?”
“Since the beginning of the Rising.”
“And what is the situation there?”
The visitor glanced first at Kovalenko, then looked back at Captain Andreyev. “The AK have thirty thousand armed men and women in the streets of Warsaw. They have seized the City Center and Old Town, and areas of the Jolibord District in the north, as well as several sections of Mokotow in the south.”
The tank corps commander, Colonel Roskov, leaned forward and spoke tersely in Russian. Kovalenko nudged Andreyev, who then translated into English for the visitor. “Colonel Roskov asks what these men and women are armed with?”
The visitor replied, “Rifles, pistols, grenades—”
Andreyev began translating back into Russian, but Roskov broke in.
Andreyev stopped, smiled at the visitor and said, “The colonel asks if the weapons are all left over from the ’39 campaign?”
Kovalenko watched silently as the visitor spread his hands on the table and locked eyes with the tank corps commander. “Not all,” the man said firmly. “There have been airdrops from Britain, and during the first week the AK captured a substantial German weapons cache in a warehouse building—MP-38 submachine guns, anti-tank rifles—”
Roskov interrupted the translation again. Andreyev listened then said, with a hint of annoyance in his voice, “The colonel heard that the AK has assassinated several high-ranking SS officers. The Germans will make them pay for that.”
Kovalenko watched the visitor closely. Something flickered in the thin man’s eyes, but his expression remained inscrutable as he leaned forward, glaring at Roskov. “The Poles are at war, sir. We all are! Against Nazi Germany, our common enemy. Isn’t that correct?”
Captain Andreyev spoke up, obviously trying to lower the tension. “Does the AK have any artillery?”
The visitor continued to stare at the Russian tank corps commander for a moment, then turned to Andreyev. “They have mortars, some American bazookas that were air-dropped—”
“Nothing larger?” Roskov asked, this time in English.
Kovalenko knew it was an old trick of Roskov’s to throw an unsuspecting American off guard, but the visitor seemed unperturbed, as though he knew all along Roskov could speak English.
“A squad of your T-34 tanks would be very useful right now,” the visitor replied.
The group lapsed back into silence. Kovalenko waited a few moments then pulled a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to the visitor. “One of our politicians visited with some of your American generals last week,” he said, in his own fluent English. “He brought these back for me.”
The visitor took a cigarette, and the general lit it for him. He inhaled deeply, apparently enjoying the taste of prime tobacco. Then he folded his hands on the table and addressed Kovalenko. “When can the AK expect the Red Army to cross the Vistula and enter Warsaw, General?”
Roskov leaned across the table and snapped, “The AK has no military standing in this—”
Kovalenko cut him off with a wave of his hand. He slowly lit his own cigarette and looked at the visitor who had never even blinked during Roskov’s final attempt at intimidation. “I am waiting for final orders,” he said. “You may report to General Bor that we will be there soon.”
“How soon?” the visitor asked. “The AK are fighting like hell, but casualties are mounting. They can’t hold out forever.”
Kovalenko studied his cigarette, then abruptly shoved his chair back and stood up. Everyone around the table stood as well. “Tell them to keep on fighting,” he said to the visitor. “We will be there soon.”
Sixteen
ON THE LAST DAY OF AUGUST, Colonel Stag transmitted a secret message to the British Special Operations Executive.
31 August 1944
From: AK Headquarters, Warsaw
To: SOE, London
Situation in Warsaw desperate. Forty percent City Center destroyed. Air bombardments and artillery shelling constant.
Hundreds of civilians killed daily. Hospitals destroyed. Thousands homeless. Burns, shrapnel wounds and disease.
Food and water critical. If no relief, all supplies gone in ten days.
Our forces reduced by half. Continuing to fight. Weapons and ammunition critical. Airdrops unsuccessful. Old Town in severe jeopardy. Evacuation imminent.
Russian forces remain idle on east side of Vistula.
When the transmission was finished, Stag wearily climbed the stairs from the cellar of the Polonia Bank building and stood on the cobblestone street to wait for Falcon. He expected the commando to bring him a report from the AK command post at the south end of the City Center. That, of course, depended on whether Falcon could make it through the rubble-filled streets in one of the few AK vehicles still operating.